You Are Alone
by star29818
Summary: You are Marian Hawke. You are Champion of Kirkwall. You are hero, friend, and confidant. You are a force to be reckoned with. You are not human, and have no need of silly human things, like emotion. You are strong, you are witty, you are utterly gorgeous. And you are alone. Angsty oneshot with the barest hint of romance. Fem!HawkeXAnders.


Because Act III wasn't all sunshine and butterflies.

Also, second-person pov is the bomb.

**Disclaimer: I doth not own Dragon Age, nor the characters.**

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You are Marian Hawke. You are Champion of Kirkwall. You are hero, friend, and confidant. You are a force to be reckoned with. You are not human, and have no need of silly human things, like emotion. You are strong, you are witty, you are utterly gorgeous. You take care of your friends, and you annihilate your enemies. You make everyone happy. You give gifts and you give favors, without asking for compensation. You are Marian Hawke.

And you are alone.

You are always alone, nowadays, even in the company of your closest friends. They banter and tease, and you smile and laugh, but it is insincere. It is forced. It isn't real. Your smiles do not reach your eyes, and your laughter is hollow. And inside, your heart feels just as empty. There is a gash, a deep tear in your soul, and it is there that all of your happiness is hidden away, long forgotten.

But just because you are alone does not mean you don't _try_. You try to feel wanted by your companions, needed by your servants, loved by the man you used to call your own. You try to feel useful in this city that's claimed you for its own. You try to feel _anything_; you _long_ to feel anything. Happiness, anger, sadness, fury, ecstasy, you wish for it all. But inside, you feel as empty as the Tranquil you see wandering aimlessly around the Gallows. And you know the reasons why. You always have.

Your friends follow you because they have nothing better to do. Perhaps Varric is the only exception to that rule, but he is only looking for fodder for his stories. And you hate yourself when you doubt their love and loyalty to you, because you _know_ they would be there if you asked. But that's exactly it.

They only come when asked. They never come when _needed_. You go to them when you want to visit, chat, or, Maker forbid, when you are lonely. And when you need comfort... Well, you have a warm, Mabari-shaped pillow.

You have only your pillow now, when you used to have him.

Because he is certainly not yours any longer. No, his spirit has gotten the better of him now, his revolution and hunger for _Justice _and _Vengeance_ has consumed his being, leaving very little room for a lowly woman like yourself in his thoughts. He does not come home much anymore - you wonder if he ever thought of your estate as his home. You cannot think of it as home without him. It is simply too _quiet_, especially after nightfall when everyone is asleep... But you cannot.

Those nights, you are plagued by both memories and nightmares. You dream of warm arms to hold you close, you long for soft lips against your neck, your cheeks, your lips. You imagine you can hear the soft sighs of his voice, whispering words of comfort and love in your ear. And all of these things, these sweet imaginings dreamed up by a woman in need of relief, turn into despair when you realize that you are, in fact, alone save for the Mabari curled beside you.

You do not know how long he has been absent. It's felt like an eternity. You do not know if or when he'll come back. You cannot even remember the last time he slept in your bed. You haven't seen his smile in months, heard his laugh in years, felt his touch in decades. You miss him. You miss him so much you _hurt_, physically and emotionally. More than anything, more than all the coin and prestige and titles in the entirety of Thedas, you want him to come home. You want him in your bed, you want him in your arms, you want him on your lips.

But morning comes, however slowly, and you are forced to face reality. He is not coming home. He is not in your bed, nor in your arms, and certainly not on your lips. And you accept the dawn of a new day, albeit perhaps begrudgingly, putting on your housecoat and heading downstairs to break your fast. Your friends are not there to help you face the day, because you are Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. Your servants serve you with cheerful smiles and hesitant admiration and _enchantment_, because you are Messere and Mistress Hawke, rescuer and liberator.

You look at your desk, anticipating the post. You find not one letter of kindness, not one note simply to ask how you are. There are no letters from Carver. Instead, they are all instructions, pleas, desperate for help and demanding your presence, rewards for services rendered. And not for the first time, you wish to throw them all into the fireplace.

Aveline visits and it is all business: you allow her to take your Mabari, your only family and the only one whom knows your pain. You let her take him away to the barracks for the day, just as she has done for several months now. And you feel bad, because you feel worse without him beside you. But you know he enjoys it, and even your hound's happiness surpasses your own in importance, so you let him go. Because you are Marian Hawke.

Merril begs you to visit, so you pull on your robes and grab your staff, setting out for the alienage. She rambles on about revisiting her clan, a desperate need to fix the Eluvian. She confesses being terrified of going alone, and _would you please, oh please, go with me?_ And despite the fact that you just want to bash her pretty, innocent, _stupid_ face into the mirror itself, you agree with a smile, because you are Marian Hawke.

Varric spies you on your way back to Hightown, and calls you into the Hanged Man for a drink. And, so long as he's paying, you agree. You sit at a table sipping your ale as he regales you with the latest gossip that surrounds you. You do not hear Isabela sneaking up behind you until she wraps her long brown arms around your neck and whispers naughty things in your ear before sitting beside you. She steals your glass, wrinkling her nose as she downs the rest of your drink, and Varric orders another round and she calls out for something stronger. You sit and listen as they tell you about the various jobs and opportunities there are for you to make some coin, if you're not too picky about bloodstains. You snort over your mug: when has _that_ ever been a problem? You are Marian Hawke.

When you finally escape the two rogues from Lowtown, you are accosted by the rogue prince in Hightown. Sebastian stops you in the middle of the street, huffing and puffing and red-faced from running. He begs you to agree to visit with some shady Chantry official on behalf of the Grand Cleric. And all of Kirkwall, he adds when he sees you sigh, because he knows your thoughts, your misgivings about the Chantry. He leans closer and murmurs words that sound like _Sister Nightingale_ and _investigation_ and _Exalted March_. But in his thick brogue, he could have been sharing a recipe for crepes for all you know. But you nod, frowning as you agree to do what he's asked and accepting his thanks. Because you are Marian Hawke.

You are almost home when Fenris finds you. He stops you just outside your door, and asks for you to stand at his side when he goes to meet his sister. And though you want nothing more than to just stay curled up in bed, you smile and nod, agreeing without hesitation. You know how important family is, and if anyone is in need of a family, it is Fenris. You agree on a time, and he goes his way, heading to back to his own estate. And you swallow the familiar sense of loneliness when you realize that you, yourself, have no family. Because you are Marian Hawke.

You finally push open the door and see him standing on the stairs, and for a brief moment, you feel _hope_. You feel your heart lighten and your breaths quicken, you feel your stomach flutter with butterflies you had long since given up for dead. And you smile, a real smile, as you go to embrace him, to welcome him home.

But he stops you. He holds up his hand as you near, and whispers _we need to talk_ and _meet me at the clinic_ before dashing out without a goodbye. And as the door slams, your hope fades, along with that smile. But you swallow thickly and push back your emotions, before following after him. Because you are Marian Hawke.

When he tells you about the lies, you feel yourself begin to shake. When he questions you and demands proof of your love, you feel your eyes begin to sting. When he commands your aid, you feel your heart begin to break. And when he finally resorts to petty threats to get his way, you _feel_. You are as cold as ice and as furious as flame. Your heart is as hard as the rock armor your wear in battle, and your eyes are electric in their ire.

But you say yes. You agree to go to the Chantry, to distract the Grand Cleric. You do it because you cannot deny the man anything. And you stifle your tears and your pain until it is controlled, until it seethes and burns within you, and you harness it for strength. Because you are Marian Hawke. You are not a woman who feels pain. You are not a lover being used by her man. You are not a girl who can be hurt by a silly, stupid boy. You are the Champion. You are invincible. You are stone.

It is months later before you speak to him again. He hasn't returned to the estate since your fight, and you refuse to go to the clinic. Your heart is empty, your eyes lifeless, the world around you is dead in his absence. Your only consolation is at the bottom of a bottle, and you seek after it tirelessly, religiously. You avoid Darktown. And, after a while, you begin to avoid Lowtown and Hightown as well. You can drink your sorrows away just as easily at home as you can at the Hanged Man and the Blooming Rose, with better liquor at a fraction of the price, not to mention better company. However, you do still take the odd job here and there - just to work out your frustrations. And when you return, covered in filth and blood and with nothing but a broken nail for your troubles, he is there.

You stare blankly at him for a moment, wondering if the drink has finally caught up with you. And then he moves, he _breathes_. He does not apologize for using you; he does not apologize for hurting you, for abandoning you, for being so suspicious of your love. He apologizes for nothing. Instead, he wordlessly begs your forgiveness. It is in his eyes, in his sad almost smile, in his hand as he reaches for you, in his fingers as they twine with yours.

And you forgive him. Because you cannot deny the man anything.

You spend all night in his embrace, just as you'd dreamed of so many nights. He is above you, below you, accepting your wrath and calming your fears. His hands are gentle, his words are soft, his eyes caress you and for the first time in a long time, you feel _wanted_. You give and take, push and pull, and he is there to match you stride for stride. You cry, you laugh, and you moan together. Your heart feels _whole_.

When dawn comes, he is still at your side. He presses soft kisses to your neck before taking you in his arms one last time. This time, you notice something different in his smile, his touch. You question him, but he distracts you, and you don't mind. It is a pleasant morning filled with _please_ and _don't stop_ and _I love you_.

But you can't help but feel like he is saying goodbye.

You are breakfasting together in companionable silence when the notice comes. You are summoned to the Gallows immediately, by request of the First Enchanter. Meredith is up to her tricks again, and once more it seems as though only you can put her in her place. So you sigh and stand, hurrying to dress before pressing a thorough kiss on your man's lips and running out the door, calling out _see you tonight_. Because you are Marian Hawke, and you have to save the world from idiots like the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter.

But it is much earlier than that when you see him next.

You are at the Chantry. Meredith and Orsino are at it like bickering children, and you want nothing more than to bash their heads together. You chuckle at the mental image - you are in a good mood for the first time in a while, even if you cannot stop yawning.

But then _he_ is there, and you are confused. He is arguing with Orsino. He is declaring the Chantry useless, the Circle failed, and you struggle to comprehend what he is actually saying. You know you must read between the lines, because it is _him_.

And then the Chantry explodes, and is gone.

It is a tower of flame that reaches the sky and bursts into a massive fireball, followed by a concussive shockwave strong enough to make your teeth rattle and your knees weak. The blast swallows the city whole, engulfing everything in its path. You shield your eyes from the bright light, and you feel your skin begin to burn from the excessive heat that radiates from the blast. The air is choked with the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh, and you cough in an effort to clear it from your senses.

When the light dies down, you see him. He is standing tall, proud of his actions, his eyes blue and defiant and his skin crackling with _Justice_. You stare. Your blood has turned to ice, your heart is numb and your thoughts are blank. You struggle to comprehend what this man, what your lover has done. No one says anything, save for him, Orsino, Meredith, and Sebastian. Meredith calls for the Right of Annulment, and you cannot let that stand. You cannot support her, and so you side with Orsino. Fenris does not agree. You resign yourself to fight against the man you have called ally for nearly seven years.

And then you have to decide your lover's fate.

He sits there, now at peace, waiting on you to kill him. He asks you to do it. He says he deserves it. And you know it's true: how many innocents were in the Chantry? How many lives had he just erased? How many lives would now be forfeit due to his actions? You cannot count that high. _Justice_ demands that he pay with his life. And he has accepted it.

But all the same... You love this man. You love him more than anything you've ever known. Without him, your world ends. But you wonder... Could you really look at him the same again? Could you see the teasing glimmer in honey-colored eyes as you lay curled together in bed? Could you hear the laughter at your jokes the same? Could you feel his touch, taste his kisses? Would it ever be the same, now, after what he's done?

The answer is no. You know this in your heart. This is not the man you feel in love with at the start of it all. You are not sure who this stranger is, but he is not your lover. And though your life would be simpler if you just stuck the dagger in his back, you _can't_, because he wears your man's face. He has the same blonde hair, in the same messy ponytail, and those same eyes, and that same mouth, that same body…

You tell him to run. You tell him to go away, and never return. You tell him to _leave_.

And you're not sure what surprises you more; the fact that you can say the words without crying, or the fact that he _obeys without argument_. He stands up, and walks away, with a quiet _thank you for my life_. As if he... As if you...

As if you'd never been in love. As if you were just a random woman on the street. As if you were _nothing_. As if everything you'd ever been together was _nothing_.

Sebastian demands his life, but you ignore him. You are not afraid of him, a Prince-cum-Priest who has no land, no armies, and no throne. You let him walk away without a second thought, nor a second glance. You will not miss him. Instead, your eyes follow the path of feathers and darkness, and you feel your eyes well up. You feel sobs begin to gather in your chest, and for a moment, you feel powerless to stop the pain that swells within you as your heart breaks. You want to fall to your knees and scream at the heavens. You want to run after him, to beg him to stay. You want to run after him and disappear together, away from all _this_. You want to obliterate everything in your path. You want -

And then, a calm voice of reason overtakes your panic. You have a job to do. There is a price to pay for Anders' actions, and you are the one who has to pay it. You have to clean up the mess, as you've always done.

Because you are Marian Hawke. You are Champion of Kirkwall. You are hero, friend, and confidant. You are a force to be reckoned with. You are not human, and have no need of silly human things, like emotion. You are strong, you are witty, you are utterly gorgeous. You take care of your friends, and you annihilate your enemies. You make everyone happy except yourself. You give gifts and you give favors, without asking for compensation. You are not a woman. You are not a silly girl to be devastated by a man. You are not naïve. And now, you are a terrible force of nature, all ice and fire and lightning and stone. You are rage and wrath. You are death and salvation. You wreak havoc on your enemies without pity, and when it's all over, you run.

You are Marian Hawke.

And you are alone.


End file.
